


Passanger

by lothkitten



Series: Austringer [1]
Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dom/sub Falconry SHIELD, Assassins, Dom/sub, Falconry, M/M, Non-Consensual Violence, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Phil Coulson is a BAMF, abuse by handler of their assassin, austringer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lothkitten/pseuds/lothkitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is part of an elite force of assassins, those who are managed by handlers called Austringers while living the life of a human falcon or hawk, dependent on their austringer for everything except the ability to kill.</p><p>When a supposed false move brings him and his cruel austringer, Buck "Trick Shot" Chisholm, back to headquarters, he meets Austringer Coulson and discovers just how different life can be with a true, caring master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> In falconry terms, "a wild-caught bird caught in juvenile plumage is called a passager, meaning it is under a year old." Clint Barton was taken from the streets as a young boy, early-to-mid-teens, by Austringer Chisholm, so he is called a passage, as opposed to an eyass, which would be a child raised by their austringer, or a haggard, an adult brought in for training.
> 
> For more information on the falconry terms I've used, you can pop over here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Falconry_training_and_technique. 
> 
>  
> 
> WARNING:
> 
> This story contains Dom/sub dynamics (although usually they will be of a positive kind) due to the nature of the falconry lifestyle in this AU.
> 
> This chapter contains mis-use of power over a submissive human, a whipping (of the facial area), and a non-consensual blow-job.
> 
> I promise it gets cheerier from here, although Clint's got a lot to deal with.

He’d been following the scent for days: a flash of news here, a splash of intel there, but never enough to qualify for a flush. It was all he could do to keep from taking in the quarry early, since he could see just how to do it, but he had to wait. He stayed to his perch, watching, wary, his eyes following the slight, uninteresting man with the plain black coat who had done such horrible things, and unable to do anything but stay out of sight and listen for the call.

When it came, when his austringer made the flush, the quarry took to the streets, his footsteps sodden on the mushy spring Moscow pavement. This was his moment, his flight, the rush he lived for and had been trained for. One arrow, fitted with precision against the string, steadied, and released. The quarry dropped. His work was done.

Arriving at the nest for the night, he curled up on the cot in the corner, his thin jacket still damp from the rain. The sofabed would have been more comfortable, but the sofabed was for his austringer. His was the mews, where the hunter slept. He knew some austringers worked more like handlers, treated their birds like pets, let them sleep warm and fed and comfortable, but his wasn’t one of those. He was kept lean and needful, on the edge of desperate, knowing that only the hand that fed him could keep him alive, and that if he didn’t return to the nest, he was on his own, lost in a world he understood but could never be a part of.

He’d nearly drifted off when the door opened, snapping against its hinges. Chisholm, his austringer, stood there, droplets seeping from his clothing on to the worn floors.

“Barton, he’d already delivered the package! You said he hadn’t, that he still had it. Now he’s dead, and we can’t even question him. What kind of fucking loser manages to miss a delivery and takes out the quarry flat dead?” 

The hit came hard and fast across his face, the strap of leather stinging. He could almost feel the welt rise as the second hit came down, crossing the first and snapping the edge of his jaw. He could fight back, he was the stronger of the two and his arrows were within reach, but he’d been broken in by this man as a passage, a youth too young to make it on his own. He couldn’t fight back, not against the man who had claimed him, made him, and owned him. 

He had but faint memories of his mother, warm and loving but weak against his father’s beatings, and of Barney, too stubborn to take the hits himself. Chisholm had taken him away from that, from the streets where he and Barney had fled, had lured him in with a warm meal and soft words and he’d woken up blinded by a leather hood over his head and tethered to a bed by leather straps just strong enough to keep him down.

All the memories from his training period were muted, faded by the hunger and the pain and the darkness of his hood and his sunless mews. He took his food from Chisholm’s hands, ate when he was told to, slept where and when he was told to, and grew to hate and love the man the Agency called their Trick Shot in equal parts. The loathing might grow stronger some days, and today was one of those days, but the love would return, if only because if he did not love this man, who would he love?

The beating stopped. He knew his face and neck would be covered with cross-hatched lines, and he thought a few of the hits had drawn blood. He could taste the copper-iron burning on his lips when he wet them, but he knew if it was bad enough that Chisholm would tend to the cuts, if only just enough. The pain carried him up higher than any rooftop he’d perched on, floating through red-tinged clouds that blurred his vision with a sort of free-form bliss even before the hood descended. 

His hands and feet bound while his austringer stripped off his wet clothing, there was nothing more to do except run through all the things he’d done wrong. The moments he’d glanced away during which the quarry had obviously slipped his package of documents to someone else, or how he hadn’t noticed that the quarry’s jacket was considerably lighter than it had been before, or the fact he had taken out the quarry instead of incapacitating him. But that last he was not sorry about, even if he should have been: the man was pure evil, had so many deaths on his head and in so many uniquely horrific ways that he didn’t even deserve the agony he knew Chisholm and his ilk would bring. He deserved death, quick and sure, lest he ever sweet-talk his way into jail, or worse, freedom. He couldn’t trust those above him to not deliver the shot the way he could, he’d seen it happen time and time again.

Chisholm’s voice was cold even with the undercurrent of heat that he knew would be laced there. “Do you understand what you did wrong, and why you had to be punished? Do you understand that you are simply the hawk, the weapon, the body I use to carry out my missions, that you, alone, are nothing, and without me you would be nothing more than a pest on the street, eager for whatever new hand would feed you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now open, and if you so much as move I’ll cover your ass with my belt.” 

Sometimes it was food, scraps when he’d failed but hadn’t botched things too badly, bits of steak when he’d done well. When he failed as miserably as he had today, however, it was never food that slid over his tongue and down his throat. At least Chisholm wasn’t too big, not that he’d ever risk saying that to him. It was over quickly, the beating having roused him, and having his hawk gone for several days on the city rooftops while he followed on the ground below made for enforced chastity, something Chisholm was never fond of. The fingers stroking his throat, pressing even over the welts, brought him to swallow.

“At least you can do one thing right. Now sleep. We’re headed back to headquarters tomorrow, and I want you alert while we’re traveling.”  
He nodded, trying to force his mind to blank out despite the gnawing hunger in his belly. 

Footsteps, steady and sure, echoed down the hallway towards the briefing room where Chisholm and his hawk sat, still hooded from the plane flight. The door squeaked open, all the doors in headquarters squeaked - for a group of spies, it made for a very un-stealthy work environment he’d always thought.

“Austringer Chisholm, my name is Austringer Coulson. I’m here to take Hawk Barton to the barracks mews while you’re debriefed. I know you’re used to keeping him with you, but the Director wants to speak with you alone. Please follow Ms. Lewis, she’ll take you to the meeting room, and you can return to the barracks afterwards to collect your bird.”

“I don’t leave him with anyone, never have. They know that here, it’s in the notes.” Chisholm’s voice was unsteady, tipped off-kilter. It was a new sound.

“I’m sorry, those are my orders. They’re waiting for you upstairs.” Austringer Coulson’s voice was soothing, as steady as his footsteps, and the fear at being taken off away from his own austringer lessened.

Chisholm’s footsteps had died away, quick and self-sure, before the hood was untied and slowly lifted. Even as he sat blinking against the bright room, anger and pain were visible in the stranger’s eyes before a bland expression settled over his face.

“I only have one question for you for right now, Hawk Barton, and after that I’ll guide you to your mews and you can eat and rest. But I need honesty, full and total honesty. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, good. Did your austringer beat you because he said you failed the mission?”

Honesty. He’d wanted honesty. Honesty would lead to rest, to a meal. A deep breath in, and out, and then he felt he could reply. “Yes. I let the quarry deliver his package, and then took him out, not allowing for him to be questioned.”

“I wasn’t asking if you failed the mission, Barton. I was asking if you were beaten because Austringer Chisholm said you failed the mission and deserved punishment?”

“Oh.” He thought for a moment, trying to think of a way that this could be a trick question, since the wording seemed so important. “Yes. That’s what he said, that’s why he did it. I did deserve it though.” 

Austringer Coulson’s mask of disinterest slipped again, and the look that appeared there for a moment was a dangerous one.

“We thought so.” His voice caught for a moment as he fought to pull back his composure. “You will not see your prior austringer again. You are being reassigned. He is being brought into custody for working both sides, as well as mis-handling of his bird. Either charge would get him imprisoned, but together... He will be dealt with, I promise you that. For now, you are safe and will be taken proper care of. I will personally take you to the barracks mews, and oversee your treatment and feeding until such time as you are deemed ready for the field again. You have been treated in a way no hawk, no human, should ever be treated, and I will not let it happen again.”

There were too many thoughts swirling in his head to allow for a response. Fear was blossoming at the forced separation from his austringer, joy at the idea of people caring for him. He caught himself before he could fall forward against this as-of-yet unknown austringer, as his body’s need for food and proper rest melded with his emotional overload, but he closed his eyes, almost wanting his hood back.

“Shhhh, shhhh, it’s alright,” Austringer Coulson whispered, his fingertips brushing through the thick mussed hair, since to touch any of the available skin would be to brush a welt. “I’ve got you, you’re safe, I promise you’ll be safe. I’m your new austringer, Clint, and I promise that you are safe.”


	2. Gentling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint Barton is part of an elite force of assassins, those who are managed by handlers called Austringers while living the life of a human falcon or hawk, dependent on their austringer for everything except the ability to kill.
> 
> When a supposed false move brings him and his cruel austringer, Buck "Trick Shot" Chisholm, back to headquarters, he meets Austringer Coulson and discovers just how different life can be with a true, caring master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In falconry terms, "a wild-caught bird caught in juvenile plumage is called a passager, meaning it is under a year old." Clint Barton was taken from the streets as a young boy, early-to-mid-teens, by Austringer Chisholm, so he is called a passage, as opposed to an eyass, which would be a child raised by their austringer, or a haggard, an adult brought in for training.
> 
> For more information on the falconry terms I've used, you can pop over here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Falconry_training_and_technique.
> 
> I threw together a little soundtrack if you're bored and want to know what I've been listening to while writing this story: http://www.mediafire.com/?5zb6jn19mwr3bzu (And yes I have super eclectic taste in music, be forewarned). 
> 
>  
> 
> WARNING:
> 
> This story contains Dom/sub dynamics (although usually they will be of a positive kind) due to the nature of the falconry lifestyle in this AU.
> 
> This chapter contains mentions of the things that went on in the first chapter, which I suggest you read first as a) this won't make a lot of sense otherwise and b) that way you know what sort of things Clint will be dealing with.

In the unoccupied mews that Austringer Coulson led him to there was no light: even the door (unlike the other squeaky ones) had been fitted so well that there were no cracks. The bed under him was firm, but still softer than any he was used to, and he’d never had so many blankets and pillows around him in his whole life. He didn’t need his hood in this dark place to feel at least a little comfortable and somewhat safe, which was good since his new austringer had taken it away from him when he left, saying, in that gentle voice, that he was carrying it off to be cleaned. He had looked inside and set his jaw in a way that bespoke further punishments for Austringer Chisholm, had made sure that Clint knew where the food and water were on the small table, and had left with a smile that was somehow bland and heartwarming at the same time. 

He would be back, and soon, to check on him. A promise. Austringer Coulson gave a lot of promises, more than anyone else had in Clint’s life. Normally that would set off bells, warnings of lies and heartbreak in the distance, but then Austringer Chisholm hadn’t made many promises after those first few. He’d just given orders, words set in stone and etched into flesh, and Clint had obeyed.

Austringer Chisholm had been the center of his world for more of his life than otherwise, if the dates swirling bleakly were right. Thirteen without plus fifteen with equaled the oxygen being sucked, heady, from the room but the fire slowly curling up the walls might not actually bring death. Surety could mean the same thing as prison and he wasn’t sure he could remember what life felt like outside the cell walls or if he’d ever even known. He was a Hawk, but without his austringer’s commands, could he even fly? He could feel his heartbeat hurrying along too fast as his thoughts swirled and all his old tricks, taught him by Chisholm, didn’t seem to bring him any calm.

“Clint? I’m coming in now.” Calming wasn’t even the right word - the man’s voice was a verbal tranquilizer, it oozed through the door’s material like that spray Austringer Chisholm had used once when he’d refused to be brought in, settling along his spine and lapping at his nerves. The door opened, and he’d dimmed the lights so Clint wouldn’t have to blink to adjust. Thoughtful, a new word for the string of differences. “You didn’t eat any of the food.” It wasn’t a question, but Coulson picked up the plate, tipped it this way and that, and then glanced at the inside of the cup. “Or drink the water. I’d like you to eat, unless you’re not hungry, but you really do absolutely need to drink the water, after everything you’ve been through today.”

Oh. He was that sort of austringer. He... he was allowed to eat, on his own. Austringer Coulson hadn’t just shown him, before, so he would know he’d get fed soon. He knew his shock was written plainly on his face, but it would be up to Coulson to decypher it. Words on paper could not make this man his master, nor undo the things, good and bad, that had already been taught him. Something in him wanted to turn his head, to bow, to place his forehead in this kindly seeming austringer’s hand, and submit as he knew he ought. He would, if he was to stay with him. But not tonight, not when he felt like every breath was still freedom mixed with chains.

“Here.” The sandwich - it had lettuce and tomatoes along with the bacon and Clint hadn’t really ever eaten veggies - held out in strong, lean fingers, was meant for him to take himself, eat with his own hands. There weren’t jesses holding his hands down, or together, but they came up as a pair, reaching as if the band of leather still held them. His stomach turned over at the smell, flopping hungrily but unpleasantly. Clint must have made a face, unbidden, because Coulson laughed, quiet, almost pained. “I can take everything off but the bacon, if you’d like. But you’re underweight, and undernourished and I’d really like to not have to put you in medical with an IV of nutrients in your arm. You wouldn’t like that too much, either, I’m guessing.”

Clint took the sandwich, sniffing, and lifted it to his mouth. The left corner of his lips cracked from the welt that crossed it and he was too exhausted, drained, to hold in the wince. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can eat it.” He sighed, speaking with his mouth closed as much as he could against the little hot pains, knowing refusing food, even from an overly kind austringer, was begging for a punishment.

Reaching for the sandwich, Austringer Coulson set it back on the plate and pulled a handkerchief - white, possibly starched - from some inner pocket of his suit jacket. He dipped it in the untouched water and daubed it at Clint’s mouth. Damp coolness and smooth-rough linen came away dotted faint red and he ducked his head, ashamed, unsure. “Of course. Clint, I should have thought of that. Here, can you open your mouth just a little without it hurting?”

His head snapped up. He wasn’t being punished, he would have stood it, but this... this self-disappointment was shocking. This austringer was nothing but unexpected angles and untested paths, frightening when at each new corner he’d met not a slap but a smile and maybe he was tired of fighting the kindness. “Yes,” he replied, when he saw Coulson tearing little bits of bread from the top half of the sandwich and pairing it with a small piece of bacon. He gulped, opening his lips and waiting, eyes downcast.

“Look at me, Clint. Please.”

Hazel-grey eyes focused on him so intently that it was discomforting. He held the gaze though, setting his shoulders.

“I don’t want you feel like you have to relearn everything, you’re already thrown off your game enough. We’ll take this in small steps, ok?” He waited for Clint to nod. “I’ve seen you work, you know, in the field. I’ve watched you crossing roof-tops, shooting.” His new austringer’s smile widened just a small bit. “You’re one of the best we’ve ever had, you’re so good we never suspected there was a problem until recently. I don’t want you to feel any more lost than we can help, and I want to get you back out there, flying, hunting. We need you, and I think you need that.”

Clint nodded, risking a slight upturn of his lips. “Thank you, sir. That... sounds good.”

Austringer Coulson seemed to let out a sigh that neither of them had admitted he was holding. “Excellent. So we’ll work on this one sandwich at a time, then.” He held up the bite of food just close enough that Clint would still have to tip his head to take it from his fingers. He did, and when he’d eaten from Austringer Chisholm it had been by rote, needed, sometimes unwanted. Frequently he’d still had the taste of him in his mouth. Austringer Coulson’s fingers had lines from papercuts repeated over many years, tasted clean, smelled lightly of soap and Clint wanted them to pet him, wanted a caress from those plain, steady fingers so badly.

It wasn’t the rush of lust, of heat, that he’d sometimes felt with Chisholm, although he’d be lying to himself (and that was something that Clint tried not to do, he’d had enough of lies) if he didn’t admit there was something attractive about the man. No, this was a need purely for comfort, but he hadn’t earned it. He was starting over again, and he’d need to learn what warranted gentling, since obviously the rules for punishment were different now, too.

“If you’d been my bird, you wouldn’t have these,” Coulson stated, voice softening. He hovered his sandwich-empty fingertips in slow movements through the air just over Clint’s skin, each one echoing a now-bruising welt. “Not that I won’t punish you, but never, ever like this. Never for something you didn’t do, to start with. Never for my own incompetence. Never on your face, and never... I’ll never use you like he did, Clint. Know that, right now. You’re a highly trained Hawk, and more than that, you’re a human, with rights, even if being a Hawk does mean you give a lot of those rights away.” He paused, seeming to shake himself out of a growing anger, and broke up another bite, holding it up for Clint, and then another, until the bread and bacon was gone and most of the lettuce, as well. He handed Clint the cup between bites, and gave a satisfied nod when it was emptied.

“Do you have any questions before I let you sleep?”

He wasn’t expecting to even be allowed questions at this point, but he found that he had a few despite the growing tired he felt settling into his core. “Do you have other Hawks, or will I be your only bird?” He hated that slight hesitancy in his voice, it sounded too needy to his ears.

The pause told him what answer would follow, but he didn’t expect the laugh. “Well some think I should call her more of a spider than a Hawk, but yes, I do have one other bird I’ve been working with for a while. You can meet her whenever you’re ready, and eventually I’d like you to share a mews. Her name is Natasha Romanov. She’s an eyass, but I’ve only had her for a few years. Like you, she... suffered from bad handling.”

“So you’re a rehabilitator, then, sir?” Clint tipped his head, curiosity getting the better of him.

“You could say that, I suppose. Not purposefully, but you’re both good Hawks and... the point is you’re both far better than the hand that was given to you, and I’m very thankful to be able to help.”

He didn’t deserve this. He knew that, deep and sure. He definitely didn’t deserve the soft brush of his new austringer’s hand over his hair, attempting to pat the impossible fluff into something other than wildness. His eyes closed, exhaustion and relief and something that might almost be joy flooding his tired system.

“Rest now, my hawk. I’ll try to be here when you wake, and I’ll make sure you have your hood again soon.”

He put the plate away, tucked Clint in under a layer of the blankets in a way no one had since his mother, went out to refill the water glass, and then, with another feather-light caress on his hair, as if he knew exactly what Clint wanted most, instead of leaving, he sat down in the chair, the door closed, to watch him slip into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not personally a falconer or austringer, but I have known several through the SCA, and have been enjoying researching the topic, so if you happen to know more than I do on the topic and see something I've massively screwed up, please feel free to correct me!


	3. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Opening his eyes to the darkness, Clint could sense another person sitting across the small mews, where he’d last seen his new austringer sit. He twitched in on himself, curling slightly both to protect his body, and to prepare to lash out with a kick. The movement must have alerted the stranger: the pattern of slow, almost too slow, breathing changed, regulating to a normal speed, and he shifted backwards. A rush of air meant the man - musky scent, more earthy than most while still clean, faint confusing chemical traces on top of the earthen - had raised his hands, to placate. ‘Peace,’ his hands said, a white flag of movement. (Happy Birthday to my dearest love, plotbunny!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In falconry terms, "a wild-caught bird caught in juvenile plumage is called a passager, meaning it is under a year old." Clint Barton was taken from the streets as a young boy, early-to-mid-teens, by Austringer Chisholm, so he is called a passage, as opposed to an eyass, which would be a child raised by their austringer, or a haggard, an adult brought in for training.
> 
> For more information on the falconry terms I've used, you can pop over here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Falconry_training_and_technique.
> 
> I threw together a little soundtrack if you're bored and want to know what I've been listening to while writing this story: http://www.mediafire.com/?5zb6jn19mwr3bzu (And yes I have super eclectic taste in music, be forewarned).
> 
>  
> 
> WARNING:
> 
> This story contains Dom/sub dynamics (although usually they will be of a positive kind) due to the nature of the falconry lifestyle in this AU.
> 
> This chapter contains mentions of the things that went on in the first chapter, which I suggest you read first as a) this won't make a lot of sense otherwise and b) that way you know what sort of things Clint will be dealing with.

Opening his eyes to the darkness, Clint could sense another person sitting across the small mews, where he’d last seen his new austringer sit. He twitched in on himself, curling slightly both to protect his body, and to prepare to lash out with a kick. The movement must have alerted the stranger: the pattern of slow, almost too slow, breathing changed, regulating to a normal speed, and he shifted backwards. A rush of air meant the man - musky scent, more earthy than most while still clean, faint confusing chemical traces on top of the earthen - had raised his hands, to placate. ‘Peace,’ his hands said, a white flag of movement.

“Hawk Barton,” the voice was pitched low, a little husky, a little ironic, “Austringer Coulson, your new austringer, asked me to wait with you. His other hawk just arrived home from a long mission, and he had to attend to her for a little while. He hated to leave you, I can’t remember when I’ve seen his feathers so ruffled, pardon the pun, but when you’re ready, I’ll bring you to your new mews, where he’s greeting Hawk Romanov. If you’d rather stay here until he’s free, he said you could do that, too.” 

The man paused, letting his words sink in. Clint could still not believe anyone who barely knew him would be that upset about his reaction, especially an austringer when it was his hawk, but then, Austringer Coulson hadn’t actually done anything to disprove that his reaction would be in keeping with the kindnesses piling up around Clint like presents around rich kids at Christmas. “Now that you know your options, and why there’s a weird guy meditating in your mews, I’m Dr. Bruce Banner, I’m one of the scientists the Agency employs to keep up with the latest and greatest in health and tech for hawks, and for austringers, for that matter. Also I’m kind of about as good at living in the real world as most hawks, so yeah, there’s that. Heh. Um, so there’s some water here, and I can turn on a light, or open the door, if you’d like.”

He’d never directly dealt with one of the Agency’s doctors before. He’d been injured, of course, but Au-... but his previous austringer had either cleaned him up, himself, or had taken him to a seedy third-rate doctor who Clint had always doubted still had his license, if he ever had. And this man was clearly much more than just a doctor, a scientist, and someone that his new austringer trusted, which, for the moment, was all that Clint wanted to focus on, or really could, when he processed it. “I’d like water, light, and I think... I think, if you could take me to Austringer Coulson after that, I’d like that.” He wanted to wait, to prove he didn’t mind sitting here in the dark with the slightly odd doctor, but he was both curious about his new mews and mewsmate, and about how Austringer Coulson handled her. And, when he thought about it, he wanted to spend more time with the person now responsible for him, both out of curiosity and need.

“Of course, of course.” Dr. Banner stood and opened the door a crack, as Austringer Coulson had, letting the light slowly flood the room until his eyes could cope before he flicked on the overhead light. The doctor was younger than Clint had expected somehow, curly dark hair framing his face, or perhaps taking over it, and eyes that held the same sort of gentleness as his austringer. He handed the water cup to Clint, watched as he drank it down, and stepped out into the hallway ahead of him, moving to the side instead of naturally taking the place in front as an austringer would do.

There were too many hallways at SHIELD Agency headquarters and Clint had to use every bit of his tracking sense to follow the twists and turns that led them from his holding mews to where he’d be staying. He knew that was part of the point, the Agency had no great desire to be simple to breach, or easy for a hapless hawk on the run to escape from. SHIELD supposedly stood for Strategic Hawk Identification, Education and Leashing Division. The general public were taught that being a hawk was something that, for the most part, naturally came to certain people as opposed to something took years of teaching and training - of course some were much better suited for it than others, but Clint had always thought that his previous austringer had not cared a bit about if he ‘spoke of great potential’ so much as that he was homeless, unattended, and a pathetic looking thirteen year old with a hint of fight in him.

Pausing in an empty hallway that looked like the previous four, the doctor pulled out his cell and entered something, waited, and then after a moment nodded at it. “Coulson says he’s done debriefing Hawk Romanov.” He nodded abstractly at his phone before putting it away and continuing around the corner. Three corners later and Clint could tell they’d reached the Agency Mews: doors led to windowless rooms, each labeled with an Austringer’s name and the list of the hawks under his care. Most had only one or two, but a rare few handled more than that. At the very end of the hall, which was a dead-end, the door was labeled ‘Coulson’, and had ‘Nat. Romanov’ and ‘Clint Barton’ under it, in handwriting so neat it almost looked printed. A quiet vocal hum came from inside, and when Dr. Banner knocked it stopped abruptly.

Instead of Austringer Coulson, the door was opened by a young woman with hair so red as to make ‘flame-like’ seem not quite enough to describe it, and yet the color was clearly natural. She looked between them with the instant, cautious gaze and steady, unmoving face of a hawk, her movements almost exaggerated in their birdlike way. Her gaze moved over the doctor quickly and turned to Clint, sizing him up, cataloguing him, filing him away. If it wasn’t exactly what Clint, himself, did, upon meeting new people, he would be unnerved. He wondered if he looked quite as deadly serious about it as she did, but then, she could probably look any way she wanted and still be fascinating. 

“Hawk Barton,” she stated, casually, a fact lined up and already assessed. She held up her hand, small and no doubt deadly dangerous, for Clint to shake. He could feel the strength there when he did, hovering just under the assumed exterior of weakness. He had not spent time with many other hawks, in fact he could count the times he’d exchanged more than a nod with another of his kind on one hand, but if they were all like his new mewsmate, he could see why the Agency had the reputation it did.

“Hawk Romanov?” Clint asked, despite knowing the answer. She nodded and then moved out of the way as Austringer Coulson tapped her on the shoulder. His hazel eyes scanned Clint, and like the other hawk, his expression gave away nothing, despite the fact his smile, when he’d finished, was warm. 

“Thank you, Dr. Banner, I’ll see you at the meeting later?” he paused to give the doctor a quick smile in dismissal.

“I’m sure I’ll see you around, Hawk Barton,” Dr. Banner ran a hand distractedly through his curls, “If you ever need anything and your austringer isn’t available, know that you can come to me, alright?” 

Clint caught himself nodding even though he almost wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to. It was so completely foreign to him to have so much attention spent on his comfort within such a short period of time - or at all - and why the wry scientist with his kicked-puppy-Bambi eyes would care was almost as much of a mystery as Austringer Coulson just _was_. Dr. Banner wandered away back down the hall and Clint turned his attention at once to his new handler.

“Glad to see you, Hawk Barton. I’ve been working with Hawk Romanov for almost five years now, so we have a fairly steady partnership, hence the fact she goes on missions without me being on site with her. That leaves me time to work with you, to get you back out in the field as quickly as possible. I may end up working you together sometimes, and this is where you will both be housed. I don’t have a private mews at the moment, my apartment is being used as a safehouse for the agency, so until that changes, this is home.”

Home. Partnership. Clint clung to the ideas that swam thick through Austringer Coulson’s simple words, nesting them in his mind in a place where he could pick them up later and turn them over, feel out how they sounded, albeit silently, on his tongue.

Austringer Coulson made room in the doorway so he could pass inside, the bare room still obviously more comfortable than the mews Clint was used to. The two beds were slightly different, Hawk Romanov’s had been there longer, and had a small collection of impersonal personal items on a nightstand next to it. Clint’s was a blank slate, the standard issue bedding carefully folded at the foot, along with a new set of leather jesses and his hood, freshly cleaned. It would probably smell of leather soap again: his previous austringer had given him a bar once as a reward, one of his few.

“Thank you, sir.” He turned to give Austringer Coulson his full attention. “I will do my best to deserve my place here.”

“I’m sure you will. I want to get you a new hood soon, but small steps, and you’ll probably need one here, in order to sleep.” The austringer reached to the wall next to him and pushed a small button inset against the creamish grey plaster, causing curtains to slide upwards over a larger picture window. “Natasha, Hawk Romanov, doesn’t like to be enclosed in a black room, or a hood. She is unable to sleep that way, due to bad handling in her past. That’s why my mews is at the end of the hallway. When you are here alone, you may keep the window closed, and no light will enter, but when you are both here, the window must remain open. If knowing the window is there will cause you distress, hood on or not, let me know now and I can arrange something.”

“No,” Clint stared out the window with a gaze that was close to hungry. They were so many floors up that security wouldn’t be any kind of issue, so Clint knew there was no reason to fear. “I’ve never been in a mews where I was allowed to look out. But I think for sleeping I will need my hood, so thank you for returning it to me.”

“Of course.” Austringer Coulson gave Hawk Romanov a nod that Clint caught out of the corner of his eye, and she disappeared from view, the door closing behind her.

The silence between Clint and his new austringer - handler - master - was one that he could live with: it didn’t drag on uncomfortably, there was no nervous tension, and he almost wondered how long the two of them would stand, staring out at the frenetically moving city. Eventually Austringer Coulson turned, giving Clint a serious, searching look.

“I don’t want you to have false expectations about the nature of our relationship. I know you’ve been one-on-one with your previous austringer for all of your adult life, and most of your teens, and I can... guess... from certain things said that you and he were intimate sexually, as well. Many austringers have that kind of relationship with their hawks, but I never have, and considering what you and Hawk Romanov have both been through, it isn’t appropriate to take advantage of you in that way.”

Clint tried out a small smile that he hoped was reassuring. 

“However,” the austringer continued, looking less intense but just as serious, “that doesn’t mean you won’t receive all the care and attention I can give you. I won’t spoil you, and I will expect total obedience, but the rewards will match your actions, and if you continue to do as well as you have in the past, you’ll be rewarded often. Sometimes that will be in the form of physical touch, if you are comfortable with that, in a non-sexual way, sometimes in the form of short leaves for an afternoon or day, sometimes with new equipment or food, we’ll have to work out between us what works. Punishments, if you disobey, will be harsh, but fair. You’ll have somewhat of a retraining period, mostly so I can see where you are on different skills, and during that time I expect you to obey as quickly as you can, partially so we can begin to bond, and partially so I can gauge your reaction times.” 

Austringer Coulson stopped and reached out to the bed, picking up the jesses, rubbing the thin leather strips across his palms. “For now, I will hood and tie you at night and when you’re doing other activities. Eventually I’d like you to just be hooded except in special cases, but we’re starting from square one, in order to develop trust, and respect, both on your end and on mine. Does all of this make sense?”

“Yes, sir!” Clint could almost feel his spine straightening, his body loosening from its perpetual almost-slouch. Respect. Trust. He could work towards that.

"Good, my hawk," the austringer set the jesses down, and reached to ruffle Clint's hair, the hesitance in his smile leaving. "Good."

**Author's Note:**

> I am not personally a falconer or austringer, but I have known several through the SCA, and have been enjoying researching the topic, so if you happen to know more than I do on the topic and see something I've massively screwed up, please feel free to correct me!


End file.
